


Misericorde

by camellia



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellia/pseuds/camellia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the turn of the 14th century, Bruce Wayne rescues a young boy from a dark fate. Or is it the other way around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in a vaguely medieval setting (emphasis on vaguely). All grammar and spelling mistakes are mine.

Father is a minstrel and our home is on the road, which is to say that we have no real home at all. Mother is the niece of the Count of Poitiers, and she has the ring to prove it. She eloped with father ten years ago, when I was born. I used to wonder if she misses her old life and if she begrudges my intrusion into hers. But, poor as we are, we are happy. Other minstrels sing ballads of John and Marie Grayson. Sometimes, I am in the ballad too. I am Richard, the rare child born of love.

In winter, the road is no place for a child. This year, we wait out the cruelest months in Nottingham, where father is a dear friend of William, the innkeeper at the Flying Robin. William regales me with tales of Robin Hood, the fearless outlaw of Sherwood Forest. At night, father plays his harp and I dance, flipping and leaping to the cadence of his song. Sometimes the onlookers leave me coins, which I gratefully pass on to William. I feel like I could live in Nottingham forever. But on the first day of spring, father decides that we have overstayed our welcome. Before dawn, we travel south for a new town called Gotham.

 

~

 

Bruce Wayne woke up to shouts outside his window. “Out, vagrants!” spat the familiar voice of constable Arnold Flass. “We have no room for filth in Gotham!”

Bruce wryly acknowledged that Flass spoke the truth. Filth already saturated every layer in Gotham, from lowly hucksters to the unholy bishop. Bruce peered outside with half a mind to intervene. In the moonlight stood a family, dressed in plain clothes with two bags between them.

“I am a minstrel and my wife is an able seamstress,” the father spoke firmly. “We will pay our own way at the inn. Surely, that is not a crime.”

“It will be a crime, minstrel,” Flass chuckled, “unless you pay the toll.” The constable reached for his dagger, if only to intimidate.

How Bruce would have loved to beat Arnold Flass into an early grave. But, before he could give in to impulse, the stern drawl of Sheriff James Gordon joined in. “Arnold. You’re wanted at the courthouse.”

Gordon led his delinquent colleague towards the town square. As he turned away, Flass snarled at the stunned family, “welcome to Gotham!”

The boy, who could be no older than ten, looked entirely traumatized. Bruce looked away, cursing Flass as he headed downstairs to break his fast.

 

~

 

They had hardly been in Gotham for one week, and Dick already decided that he hated this town. That unhinged constable had nearly extorted his family, and the beady-eyed innkeeper kept looking at him as if he’d steal—steal what? The stale bread stockpiled in the kitchen? The threadbare sheets passed off as blankets? Dick missed William and the Flying Robin.

“Chin up, Dick,” his mother said. “We’re performing with the guild tonight.”

“We are?” Dick chirped, scrambling to his feet. “Will there be bears?”

“Only if you cheer up, sourpuss,” his father said, playfully ruffling his hair. “I ran into a few members of the old guard yesterday: Walter, Eustace, and Roger. Roger has a stage in the market square that we’ll share tonight. Lysander Browne is here, too, with his bears—I hear that he’s even brought a lion.”

“And can I do my flips? I’ve been practicing,” Dick said, foul mood forgotten.

“You can, if you help me get rid of this,” his mother replied, unfurling a handsome stretch of cheerful red cloth.

Though a boy, Dick was an unashamedly skilled seamstress. “Thank you, mother!” he said, rummaging through his bag for a needle. He’d wanted a new waistcoat for ages—he didn’t think that mother knew. “I’m going to finish this by tonight!” he grinned, needle in hand. “Just watch!”

 

~

 

Bruce Wayne was the richest man in Gotham, and perhaps in all of the Midlands. His great-grandfather was Aloysius Wayne, a genius craftsman who once built a carriage for Henry Plantagenet, Earl of Lancaster and Leicester. Through his association with the peerage, Aloysius sent his only child, Edward, to study at Oxford. The young Edward returned to Gotham with a keen business sense and an encyclopedic knowledge of chemistry and geology. The name of Wayne became synonymous with gold and gems and, in some quarters, with alchemy. Bruce was the only heir of this gilded family.

But, in the ways that mattered most, Bruce was a poor man. For his 11th birthday, Thomas and Martha Wayne took their son to see a play in Nottingham. On the road home, an unseen archer shot at their carriage, killing both elder Waynes, and then robbed them blind. If not for Alfred, their unfailingly loyal manservant, Bruce would not have made it home. Every now and then, Bruce relived that night in his dreams, waking to the archer’s thunderous cackle: “Remember the name: Robin Hood!”

Several days after the minstrel’s family arrived in Gotham, Bruce found himself with a free evening. He walked through the market square, smiling genteelly at the townsfolk. The market usually thinned to a trickle by dusk, but tonight a small crowd gathered on one side, hovering around a stage draped gaily in blue and gold. A man in a bright red tunic, whom Bruce vaguely remembered as Roger de Lacy, excitedly waved him over.

“Bruce Wayne!” the man cried. “I remember when we used to run ram-shod through the market like little demons!”

Ah, yes, one of Bruce’s few childhood friends. “Roger,” Bruce replied with a rare genuine smile. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has, old friend,” Roger said. “How’ve you been? Busy as can be, I bet.”

“The usual,” Bruce shrugged. “Quite a circus here,” he said, nodding at the stage.

“My pride and joy,” Roger beamed. “You ought to stay awhile. We’ve got the best minstrel in Nottinghamshire in town, lions and bears …”

“And acrobats?” said Bruce, gazing at a boy who had just leapt clear over the lion’s cage. The minstrel’s son, Bruce recognized.

“The very best—that lad’s nimble as a bird,” Roger chortled, following Bruce’s line of sight.

A trumpet’s call broke through the air, and Bruce was startled to see his friend’s face darken with worry. “I’m needed,” Roger explained. “I’d better get to the tent.” He clapped Bruce on the back. “Stay safe, old friend.”

Bruce watched as Roger sprinted into the crowd. He hadn’t planned on staying, but perhaps now he should. On stage, the minstrel sang the legend of St. George, eliciting cheers from the crowd. Bruce was not musically inclined, but even he could appreciate the sonorous lilt of the minstrel’s song. “Lancelot and Guinevere!” someone from the crowd called in request.

Bruce wandered around, hovering in the periphery of the crowd. From afar, he saw Roger outside the tent. He was gesticulating angrily at none other than Arnold Flass, who was no doubt attempting to extract another bribe. Bruce would have to have another word with Sheriff Gordon if he couldn’t rein in the constable.

The minstrel left the stage to cheers, which grew even louder when a stagehand pulled the cloth off the bear’s cage. The animal roared mightily, pawing at its cage. Suddenly, the torches illuminating the stage went out. The crowd grew restless, shouting in frustration. The torches lit again, revealing a few reckless young men who had clamored on stage, ostensibly to show off the bear themselves. Finally, a jongleur strode towards the beast, shooing away his impostors. For a tamer of wild animals though, he seemed overly anxious, eyes darting everywhere. Senses heightened, Bruce decided to seek Roger out. He had a hunch that Lancelot and Guinevere wasn’t a request at all.

“Roger?” he called, approaching the tent behind the stage. From within, he could he hear-pitched sobbing. “Roger, are you alright?”

“In here, Bruce,” a broken voice croaked. Bruce cautiously entered the tent, but nearly stepped back in shock when he did. Two fallen bodies lay in the center: the minstrel and his wife. Roger sat, frozen, atop a worn wooden chair. The minstrel’s son hugged him from the side, crying uncontrollably.

“It just happened,” Roger choked. “I have to get the sheriff.”

“Who?” Bruce asked softly.

“Can I tell Master Wayne, Richard?” Roger asked, patting the boy gently on the back. The boy nodded mutely, head buried in Roger’s side.

“John left the stage not five minutes ago, and joined Marie here,” Roger started, shaking his head. “The torches went out, but that happens all the time. Richard had been running about, and he wanted to go on stage with Lysander. He’s such a good boy,” Roger patted the boy’s back sadly. “He wanted to ask permission. And then he found them here.”

Bruce nodded silently. He gazed at the two bodies, still colored as they were in life. Both husband and wife lay on their backs with matching chest wounds, directly over the heart, staining their plain garments. A thin blood-stained knife lay inches from John’s open right hand. “We heard nothing, not a scuffle or scream,” Roger murmured.

“It looks …” Bruce started. It looked like the fatal end to a lover’s quarrel, but Bruce didn’t want to theorize with the boy present.

“I know what it looks like,” Roger said. “But I don’t believe it myself. Makes no sense. Hell would freeze over before John lay a finger on Marie. And Richard doesn’t recognize the blade.”

Here, the boy turned his tear-stained face to Bruce. “I know someone killed mother and father,” he said, his voice soft but clear. “I know it.” He stared at Bruce with steely blue eyes.

“I believe you, boy,” Bruce found himself saying. “I can get Sheriff Gordon,” he said to Roger. “He lives on Delancey. Should be just a few minutes.”

“I want to come with you, Master Wayne” the boy said. He looked at Bruce imploringly. “Please.”

Bruce looked at Roger uncertainly. “I’ll stay with them,” Roger said, releasing the boy from his side. “He won’t cause you any trouble, Bruce. And you know what it’s like … at such a young age.” To lose your parents, Bruce heard the words unspoken.

The boy looked up at Bruce, lip trembling. “It happened to me too,” Bruce grunted, looking away. “Let’s go then, Richard.” He held his hand out awkwardly. He was no good with children.

The boy’s hand was soft and cold. He was still crying, silently now. Another man might have wondered how this boy, with his parents dead not an hour, was already hungry for a murder investigation. But Bruce didn’t wonder. He had been there, in the carriage where his parents died. He gripped the boy’s hand and they walked silently to Sheriff Gordon’s, both lost in thought. The sounds of the town square had dimmed. Bruce was surprised that Roger hadn’t warned the crowd, but he supposed they were in no additional danger. Gotham was lethal enough.

The Gordons’ home was dark, but Bruce was used to rousing him in the middle of the night. “Are you ready, Richard,” he said, not expecting an answer. He could barely see the boy in the dark, and his inky black hair didn’t help matters.

“Yes, Master Wayne,” he replied. He gripped Bruce’s hand tightly and decisively rapped on the Sheriff’s door. “Thank you Master Wayne,” he said, staring straight ahead. “And please, call me Dick.”


	2. Justice

In the wee hours of the morning, Bruce Wayne led a strange and somber parade towards the town square. At his side was Dick Grayson, the boy whose parents had died earlier in the evening. The child had stopped crying, his delicate features schooled into stoicism. Sheriff Gordon followed behind them, gripping a torch high in the air and armed to the teeth, as per usual. William Harvey, one of the parish priests, had insisted on coming as well to give the Graysons their belated last rites. Harvey had brought two workmen from the church, who pushed a wagon between them to bear the Graysons to their earthly grave.

Roger remained in the tent, having covered the deceased with blue and gold draping from the stage. He had fallen asleep on the chair.

“Master de Lacy,” Dick said, finally letting go of Bruce’s hand. He scrambled towards Roger, who woke with a start.

“Sorry, m’lad,” Roger said. “I meant to watch them, but sleep got the better of me. How’re you holding up?”

Dick looked at the mound of blue and gold. It was hard to believe that mother and father were gone forever. His lip trembled. “I don’t know,” he whispered truthfully.

“Richard, is it?” Sheriff Gordon called. He lifted the draping, allowing the priest to do his work. Harvey dutifully anointed the bodies with oil, his hand a sharp contrast against their deathly pallor. “Are you strong enough to speak with me, lad?”

Dick nodded. He had to find the person who had killed mother and father. He knew what the others saw: two vagabonds, wild from their life on the road, meeting a tragic end. A lover’s quarrel gone awry. But mother and father never came to blows. And the blade—they only had enough belongings to fill two sacks, and Dick had never seen the blade before. It was finely made, too, and the only fine thing that they owned was mother’s ring. These thoughts kept Dick together as he met the Sheriff.

“Do you have other family, boy?” the Sheriff asked.

Dick shook his head at first, but then amended, “I have never known any other family, sir, though I know that my mother was the niece of the Alphonse, Count of Poitiers, by marriage. Her father was a bastard son of Raymond, Duke of Narbonne. They are dead, and they would never have recognized me, anyway. I know little of my father’s family.”

“I see,” the Sheriff said. He picked up the blade, turning it over in his hand. It was clearly too noble for a minstrel. He wondered why it had been left behind, or used at all. “And what do you make of the blade?” he asked.

“That was all we had between us, sir,” Dick said, gesturing at two sacks in the corner of the tent. “I have never seen the blade before in my life.” He peered at the wicked thing, tears welling up again. “But it’s from Poitiers,” he whispered.

“Poitiers?” the sheriff said, confused.

Bruce looked at the blade, surveying the handle. The end of the grip was molded into a tiny three-towered castle. “The boy’s right,” he said. “The arms of Poitiers.”

“Mother has a ring with the same arms,” Dick explained.

“And have they any enemies, lad? Ever been attacked before?”

Dick shook his head. “Mother’s family was disgraced when she left, sir. But they never gave us any trouble.”

“Hmph,” the sheriff grunted. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for the French folk. God knows Gotham has enough native sons giving us grief. We don't need any outside help.” He wrapped up the blade in a coarse cloth and, after fumbling for a moment, handed it to Dick. “Keep it safe for me, lad,” he said, “or throw it into the fire. We’ll find its owner, I promise.” The sheriff raised his torch and looked around, as if expecting to reveal the murderer in the shadows. “Bruce. Roger,” he nodded, turning to leave. “I’ll see you men soon.”

“You can stay with Elizabeth and me, Dick,” Roger said, as Harvey and his two men lifted the bodies into the wagon.

“He needs protection,” Bruce said abruptly. “The murderer was no thief. He had a personal quarrel, and I suspect that he didn't know of or couldn't find the boy. He may be back yet.”

“I can fight him myself,” Dick said. He hated it when people spoke as though he wasn't there.

“Not yet, you can’t,” Bruce said, though he knew the feeling all too well.

“Then we can hide him in the church,” Roger said. “Surely, the lad won’t be in danger there.”

“Or he can stay with me,” replied Bruce. “The killer would never look for him there." He looked at Dick, who seemed so small. "I suppose that I could use some company.”

“Well. I imagine it does get lonely in that manor of yours,” Roger said, smiling for the first time that evening. “How about it, Dick?” he said. “Do you want to stay with Master Wayne?”

Dick gazed at the man, a stranger until this night. An old friend of Roger’s, he knew, and someone who had lost his parents young. The man had stepped in to help without a second thought. “I would love to,” he said.

 

~

 

The manor was much larger than The Flying Robin and much emptier. For such a rich man, Dick thought, Master Wayne certainly kept a meager household. One fatherly manservant, Alfred, served as cook and cleaner. Master Wayne took care of his three horses himself. Hoping to earn his keep, Dick latched on to Alfred, following him throughout the day as he shopped in the market and prepared meals in the expansive kitchen. He would have latched onto Bruce, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

“Alfred,” Dick said one early morning as they perused market stalls in search of spices, “what does Master Wayne do?”

“He’s a merchant,” Alfred said, tenderly sniffing a satchel of saffron.

“But what does he sell? He’s never in town,” Dick frowned.

“Gold, son! Gold and magical jewels,” the stall owner interrupted, grinning toothily. She was old, even older than Alfred, with a thick swath of embroidered black silk over her head and around her shoulders. “Haven’t you heard about the Waynes?” she chuckled. “They know the secrets of _alchimie_. They can turn anything into gold.” She threw a tuft of bright yellow saffron in the air for effect, making Dick cough.

“That’s quite enough, Blanche,” Alfred said, pulling Dick away to the next stall.

“Is it true?” Dick asked. Behind them, Blanche chortled, “Have a laugh, Alfred!”

“Master Bruce is a successful merchant, nothing more,” Alfred said primly.

“But he’s never at home in the evening, either,” Dick replied. It was true. He usually ate supper all alone.

“Sometimes, his ships come at night,” Alfred said, and Dick could not disagree. “Come, Master Richard,” Alfred said, “I believe Master Bruce may join us for breakfast today. He’s had a long night.”

Alfred was right, of course. At the manor, Dick could see Master Wayne’s majestic black steed tethered in his stable, though the beast looked rather worse for wear.

He skipped inside, settling their purchases in the kitchen. The door to Master Wayne’s bedroom was open, and Dick hadn't seen him in ages. “Master Richard! Wait!” Alfred called.

Dick knocked once and, hearing Master Wayne stir, let himself in.

Bruce lay on the bed, half-dressed in only his braies. His right shoulder was wrapped tightly in cloth and soaked through with dried blood.“You’re hurt!” Dick cried.

“M’alright, Dick,” Bruce said.

“Master Bruce!” Alfred said, furrowing his brow with worry. “I’ll send for Leslie right away.”

“I’m fine!” Bruce snapped, even as he winced in pain. “It’s not infected. I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Dick moaned, distressed to see his guardian seemingly near death.

“I was … protecting a friend,” Bruce replied. “I’m not going to die, Dick,” he added, sensing the boy’s fear. “It’s just a deep cut, nothing more.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, sir,” Alfred said reprovingly, setting a tray with all manner of poultices and ointments at the bedside. “Are you sure you want to watch?” Alfred said, turning to Dick. “Master Bruce tends to underestimate his wounds.”

“I can help,” Dick said, washing his hands in the bowl. “I've nursed my parents back to health plenty of times on the road.”

“Very well,” Alfred smiled. “Wash the wound first, Master Richard. I’ll prepare sustenance in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Dick chirped. Carefully, he peeled off the crusted bandages on Bruce’s shoulder. The wound was half-open and bright red, but thankfully the surrounding skin lacked the redness or warmth of infection. He held a hand to Bruce’s forehead, satisfied to find no traces of fever.

“You’re something else, Dick,” Bruce finally spoke, giving the boy one of his trace smiles as he methodically wiped up patches of dried blood.

“I just want to help, Master Wayne,” Dick said.

“How many times have I told you to call me Bruce?”

 

~

 

Later that the evening, after Alfred had retired to his room, Dick slipped out of the manor. He had a wild, entirely improbable hunch about Master Wayne. But his hunches were usually right.

It was a short and silent walk into town. Dick kept on the side of the road, wary of running into men like Arnold Flass. He reached the Half Moon Tavern just as the church bells tolled 10 o’clock. Roger de Lacey lived right above the tavern, and his rooms seemed dimly lit, so Dick didn't think he would mind a visit.

The tavern was closed, but Dick found a sturdy-looking tree nearby and climbed up without much effort. Through the window, Dick could barely make out three shadows. He recognized Roger and Elizabeth, but there was another man with a peg leg whom Dick did not know.

“I warned you both that I would return!” the stranger hissed in accented English. “Where is the boy?” The man used his wooden leg to kick Elizabeth in the chest, pushing her to the ground.

“There is no boy,” Elizabeth coughed.

Dick gingerly made his way down the thickest branch, hoping to reach the window. “You lie!” the foreigner shouted. He unsheathed the sword at his hip and swung it inches from Roger’s head. “I've heard the songs! Richard, Richard, Richard Grayson! I’ll ask you one last time, jester, or I kill the lady.” He held the sword at the woman’s neck. “WHERE IS THE BOY?”

“I told you, he doesn't exist,” Roger said without hesitation. Dick’s heart hammered in his chest. Where was Sheriff Gordon? Should he scream? He wanted to scream.

“Then I kill the lady, and you next,” the man said. He raised his sword high in the air.

“No!” Dick screamed, alighting through the window in one graceful leap. He ran straight into the man, throwing all his weight against him, which admittedly did little. Sword still in hand, the man turned on Dick.

“You!” the man sneered. He limped towards Dick, his wooden leg tapping erratically on the floor. “You must be the damned child! Do you know who I am?”

“You killed my family,” Dick choked out.

“Get out!” Roger groaned. “For God’s sake, lad, get out!” If his hands weren't tied fast behind his back, he would have thrown Dick out the window himself.

“He’s so naive, just like his mother,” the man said. “And arrogant, like his father.”

“Shut up!” Dick growled. He was shaking, but he kept his eyes on the sword.

“I’m going to kill you, Richard Grayson, but I want you to know who I am,” the man said softly. “Michael Capdeville. Ten years ago, I lost my leg at the Battle of the Col de Panissars. My fellow soldiers bore me home to Poitiers. And do you know what I found when I returned?”

Dick shook his head mutely.

“My betrothed, Marie de Narbonne, had run off with a common jester,” Capdeville snarled. “She betrayed me. And who now would marry their daughter to a lame and landless knight?” Dick gulped. Obviously, no one, Dick wanted to say. But he supposed that he’d best hold his tongue. “I’ve searched France and England ever since,” Capdeville continued. “And tonight, I will be vindicated.”

“You’re absolutely mad,” Dick whispered, eyes still fixed on the sword. “Sir,” he added. Would stalling work? It would have to do for now.

Capdeville let out a fearsome howl and rushed at Dick, but the boy slid under him, yanking at the peg leg. Unfortunately, this only enraged Capdeville further. Red in the face, the Frenchman hobbled toward Dick. “Don’t try me, boy,” he breathed.

At that moment, a dark shadow fell over the room, snuffing out the candles. Dick heard a distressed howl, and he scrambled backwards, trying to make his way towards Roger. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a man in a pointed cowl chaining Capdeville up, then helping Elizabeth out of her bindings. The man was built like a stone wall but moved swiftly. He kept his right arm close to his torso though, or perhaps that was Dick’s wishful thinking. The boy had a hunch, however illogical, that the man was Bruce Wayne. Master Wayne had come out the night before to protect Roger and, even with a lame right shoulder, he was here again.

“I’m taking the murderer to the Sheriff,” the man with the cowl said in a deep scratchy voice that did not sound like Master Wayne at all. “See that the boy gets home safely.” He threw his prisoner over his good shoulder and, with a sweep of his cape, leapt through the window.

Dick peered into the night. The street was empty. “Who was he?” he said in awe.

Roger lit the candles and smiled grimly. “In Gotham, we call him the dark knight,” he said softly, putting his arm around Dick’s shoulder. “But who he is, we don’t really know.”


	3. The Fool

Dick crept into the manor at half past midnight. He could not see any light from Alfred’s or Bruce’s rooms, and he felt a bit hurt that they had not noticed his absence. His mind was still churning with the night’s events. Who was the dark knight? He wanted it to be Bruce so badly, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking. He didn’t know what he had expected from tonight. What was he thinking, running headfirst into danger? He could have gotten killed by Capdeville. Mother and father would have be so angry at him for his recklessness. Feeling foolish and defeated, Dick silently tiptoed back to his room, hoping to burrow his head under his covers in shame.

“Dick.”

Dick looked up. Bruce was sitting on his bed, looking a little worse for the wear. He patted the bed, not unkindly, and Dick obediently sat next to him.

“Where did you go tonight, Dick?” Bruce asked. He didn’t sound terribly mad, not like mother or father might have been.

“I … I just went to Roger’s. I won’t do it again,” Dick said, staring at his feet. Maybe, if Bruce wasn’t the dark knight (and the idea was sounding more far-fetched with every second), he didn’t have to know just how stupid Dick was.

“You can tell me the truth, Dick. I won’t get angry,” Bruce said. He stared Dick intently.

Lies, Dick thought silently. But as usual, his mind and his mouth didn’t quite match up. “I thought you were fighting the killer,” Dick blurted out. “Because the night mother and father died, you said that the killer might be back to look for me. So I thought he might’ve attacked Roger since he was mother and father’s friend. Then you got hurt, and you said that you were protecting a friend. And I thought maybe you were protecting Roger from the killer. I just wanted to ask Roger if it was true.” Dick said it all very fast, and by the end, he realized he was crying a bit. Bruce must have thought he was crazy, now.

Bruce continued to stare at Dick, gaze unreadable. “But you didn’t get to ask him,” he said slowly.

“I didn’t?” Dick hiccuped, wiping away his tears.

Bruce was silent. “Were you there?” Dick finally asked, peering up at Bruce. “Are you the dark knight?” he said tentatively. “I suppose you could be the killer,” he said, giggling a little, “but then you’re not doing a very good job.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a half-smile at that. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he mused. “I wanted to protect you. But then I remember that when I was your age, I was burning with curiosity and rage. I scoured the roads for days after my mother and father died, looking for the archer who killed them. I guess we’re similar in that way.” He looked fondly at Dick.

“Tell me what?” Dick asked.

“Nothing you haven’t worked out already,” Bruce replied. Then, scowling, he continued, “You still put yourself in a lot of danger tonight. You should have come to me first.”

There it was, Dick thought glumly. He stared at his feet again.

“Still, you did hold your own before I arrived,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “But you’re not going out again without training.”

“Training?” Dick said, looking at Bruce uncertainly.

“I spent years training under a warrior from the Golden Horde,” Bruce said. “The east has a fighting style better suited to swift one-on-one combat. I can teach you if you like.”

Dick smiled, impulsively hugging Bruce around the midsection. Bruce coughed and awkwardly patted Dick on the head.

Dick's grip slackened as he yawned loudly. Bruce belatedly realized that it was four hours past Dick’s bedtime. He was a terrible parent, he thought, in more ways than one. “Better get some sleep,” Bruce said quietly.

Dick burrowed under the covers in agreement. “G’night, Bruce,” he mumbled. He peeked his head out. “I’m glad you took me in,” he said. “You’re a real friend.”

“Good night,” Bruce said. He snuffed out the candle and padded silently to his room. Bruce couldn’t be the father that he thought Dick should have. In fact, Bruce was fairly sure that Dick's mother and father would have killed him for not only putting their son in danger, but promising him that it would happen again. Roger and Alfred would no doubt have a few words with him tomorrow. But perhaps Bruce could be what Dick needed--a friend.


End file.
